The Fortunate Youth by William J. Locke

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Paul looked and saw that Wilson spoke truly. Then he reflected thatWilson and the others who had worked so strenuously for him had nopart in his own personal depression. They deserved a manifestationof interest, also expressions of gratitude. So Paul pulled himselftogether and went amongst them and was responsive to theirprophecies of victory.

Then just as the last votes were being counted, an officialattendant came in with a letter for Paul. It had been brought bymessenger. The writing on the envelope was Jane's. He tore it openand read.

Mr. Finn is dying. He has had a stroke. The doctor says he can'tlive through the night. Come as soon as you can. JANE.

Outside the Town Hall the wide street was packed with people. Mensurged tip to the hollow square of police guarding the approach tothe flight of steps and the great entrance door. Men swarmed aboutthe electric standards above the heads of their fellows. Men rose ina long tier with their backs to the shop-fronts on the opposite sideof the road. In spite of the raw night the windows were open and thearc lights revealed a ghostly array of faces looking down on themass below, whose faces in their turn were lit up by the more yellowglare streaming from the doors and uncurtained windows of the TownHall. In the lobby behind the glass doors could be seen a fewfigures going and coming, committee-men, journalists, officials. Afine rain began to fall, but the crowd did not heed it. Themackintosh capes of the policemen glistened. It was an orderlycrowd, held together by tense excitement: all eyes fixed on thesilent illuminated building whence the news would come. Across onewindow on the second floor was a large white patch, blank andsphinx-like. At right angles to one end of the block ran the HighStreet and the tall, blazing trams passed up and down and all eyesin the trams strained for a transient glimpse of the patch, hopingthat it would flare out into message.

Presently a man was seen to dash from the interior of the hall intothe lobby, casting words at the waiting figures, who clamouredeagerly and disappeared within, just as the man broke through thefolding doors and appeared at the top of the steps beneath theportico. The great crowd surged and groaned, and the word wasquickly passed from rank to rank.

"Savelli. Thirteen hundred and seventy majority." And then thereburst out wild cheers and the crowd broke into a myriad little waveslike a choppy sea. Men danced and shouted and clapped each other onthe back, and the tall facade of the street opposite the hall wasa-flutter. Suddenly the white patch leaped into an illuminationproclaiming the figures.

Savelli--6,135.

Finn--4,765.

Again the wild cheering rose, and then the great double windows inthe centre of the first floor of the Town Hall were flung open andPaul, surrounded by the mayor and officials, appeared.

Paul gripped the iron hand-rail and looked down upon the tumultuousscene, his ears deafened by the roar, his eyes dazed by theconflicting lights and the million swift reflections from movingfaces and arms and hats and handkerchiefs. The man is not born whocan receive unmoved a frenzied public ovation. A lump rose in histhroat. After all, this delirium of joy was sincere. He stood forthe moment the idol of the populace. For him this vast concourse ofhuman beings had waited in rain and mud and now became a deafening,seething welter of human passion. He gripped the rail tighter andclosed his eyes. He heard as in a dream the voice of the mayorbehind him: "Say a few words. They won't hear you--but thatdoesn't matter."

Then Paul drew himself up, facing the whirling scene. He sought inhis pockets and suddenly shot up his hand, holding a letter, andawaited a lull in the uproar. He was master of himself now. He hadindeed words to say, deliberately prepared, and he knew that if hecould get a hearing he would say them as deliberately. At last camecomparative calm.

"Gentlemen," said he, with a motion of the letter, "my opponent isdying."

He paused. The words, so unexpected, so strangely different from theusual exordium, seemed to pass from line to line through the crowd.

"I am speaking in the presence of death," said Paul, and pausedagain.

And a hush spread like a long wave across the street, and thethronged windows, last of all, grew still and silent.

"I will ask you to hear me out, for I have something very grave tosay." And his voice rang loud and clear. "Last night my opponent wasforced to admit that nearly thirty years ago he suffered a term ofpenal servitude. The shock, after years of reparation, of spotlesslife, spent in the service of God and his fellow-creatures, haskilled him. I desire publicly to proclaim that I, as his opponent,had no share in the dastardly blow that has struck him down. And Idesire to proclaim the reason. He is my own father; I, Paul Savelli,am my opponent, Silas Finn's son."

A great gasp and murmur rose from the wonder-stricken throng, butonly momentarily, for the spell of drama was on them. Paulcontinued.

"I will make public later on the reasons for our respective changesof name. For the present it is enough to state the fact of ourrelationship and of our mutual affection and respect. That I thankyou for electing me goes without saying; and I will do everything inmy power to advance the great cause you have enabled me torepresent. I regret I cannot address you in another place to-night,as I had intended. I must ask you of your kindness to let me goquietly where my duty and my heart call me to my father'sdeath-bed."

He bowed and waved a dignified gesture of farewell, and turning intothe hall met the assemblage of long, astounded faces. From outsidecame the dull rumbling of the dispersing crowd. The mayor, the firstto break the silence, murmured a platitude.

Paul thanked him gravely. Then he went to Wilson. "Forgive me," saidhe, "for all that has been amiss with me to-day. It has been astrain of a very peculiar kind."

"I can well imagine it," said Wilson.

"You see I'm not an aristocrat, after all," said Paul.

Wilson looked the young man in the face and saw the steel beneaththe dark eyes, and the Proud setting of the lips. With a suddenimpulse he wrung his hand. "I don't care a damn!" said he. "Youare."

Paul said, unsmiling: "I can face the music. That's all." He drew anote from his pocket. "Will you do me a final service? Go round tothe Conservative Club at once, and tell the meeting what hashappened, and give this to Colonel Winwood."

"With pleasure," said Wilson.

Then Paul shook hands with all his fellow-workers and thanked themin his courtly way, and, pleading for solitude, went through thedoor of the great chamber and, guided by an attendant, reached theexit in a side street where his car awaited him. A large concourseof people stood drawn up in line on each side of the street,marshalled by policemen. A familiar crooked figure limped from theshadow of the door, holding a hard felt hat, his white poll gleamingin the shaft of light. "God bless you, sonny," he said in a hoarsewhisper.

Paul took the old man by the arm and drew him across the pavement tothe car. "Get in," said he.

Barney Bill hung back. "No, sonny; no."

"It's not the first time we've driven together. Get in. I want you."

So Barney Bill allowed himself to be thrust into the luxurious car,and Paul followed. And perhaps for the first time in the history ofgreat elections the successful candidate drove away from the placewhere the poll was declared in dead silence, attended only by thehumblest of his constituents. But every man in the throng bared hishead.

CHAPTER XXI

"HE had the stroke in the night," said Barney Bill suddenly.

Paul turned sharply on him. "Why wasn't I told?"

"Could you have cured him?"

"Of course not."

"Could you have done him any good?"

"I ought to have been told."

"You had enough of worries before you for one day, sonny."

"That was my business," said Paul.

"Jane and I, being as it were responsible parties, took the liberty,so to speak, of thinking it our business too."

Paul drummed impatiently on his knees.

"Yer ain't angry, are you, sonny?" the old man asked plaintively.

"No--not angry--with you and Jane--certainly not. I know youacted for the best, out of love for me. But you shouldn't havedeceived me. I thought it was a mere nervous breakdown--the strainand shock. You never said a word about it, and Jane, when I talkedto her this morning, never gave me to dream there was anythingserious amiss. So I say you two have deceived me."

"But I'm a telling of yer, sonny--"

"Yes, yes, I know. I don't reproach you. But don't you see? I'm sickof lies. Dead sick. I've been up to my neck in a bog of falsehoodever since I was a child and I'm making a hell of a struggle to geton to solid ground. The Truth for me now. By God! nothing but theTruth!"

Barney Bill, sitting for-ward, hunched up, on the seat of the car,just as he used to sit on the footboard of his van, twisted his headround. "I'm not an eddicated person," said he, "although if I hadn'tdone a bit of reading in my time I'd have gone dotty all by my lonesin the old 'bus, but I've come to one or two conclusions in my, soto speak, variegated career, and one is that if you go one in that'ere mad way for Truth in Parliament, you'll be a bull in a chinashop, and they'll get sticks and dawgs to hustle you out. Sir RobertPeel, old Gladstone, Dizzy, the whole lot of the old Yuns was upagainst it. They had to compromise. It's compromise"--the old mandwelt lovingly, as usual, on the literary word--"it's compromiseyou must have in Parliament."

"I'll see Parliament damned first!" cried Paul, his nerves on edge.

"You'll have to wait a long time, sonny," said Barney Bill, wagginga sage head. "Parliament takes a lot of damning."

"Anyhow," said Paul, not eager to continue the argument, butunconsciously caught in the drift of Barney Bill's philosophy, "myprivate life isn't politics, and there's not going to be another liein my private life as long as I live."

The old man broke a short silence with a dry chuckle. "How it takesone back!" he said reflectively. "Lor lumme! I can hear yer speakingnow--just in the same tone--the night what yer run away with me.Yer hadn't a seat to yer breeches then, and now you've a seat inParliament." He chuckled again at his joke. "But"--he gripped theyoung man's knee in his bony clasp--"you're just the same Paul,sonny, God bless yer--and you'll come out straight all right. Herewe are."

The car drew up before Silas Finn's house. They entered. Jane,summoned, came down at once and met them in the dreadfuldining-room, where a simple meal was spread.

"I haven't heard--" she said.

"I'm in."

"I'm glad."

"My father--?" he asked curtly.

She looked at him wide-eyed for a second or two as he stood, hisfur-lined coat with astrachan collar thrown open, his hand holding asoft felt hat on his hip, his absurdly beautiful head thrown back,to casual glance the Fortunate Youth of a month or two ago. But toJane's jealous eye he was not even the man she had seen thatafternoon. He looked many years older. She confessed afterwards tosurprise at not finding his hair grey at the temples, thusmanifesting her ordered sense of the harmonious. She confessed, too,that she was frightened--jane who, for any other reason than themere saving of her own skin, would have stolidly faced Hyrcaneantigers--at the stern eyes beneath the contracted brows. He was adifferent Paul altogether. And here we have the divergence betweenthe masculine and the feminine point of view. Jane saw a new avatar;Barney Bill the ragged urchin of the Bludston brick-fields. Sheshifted her glance to the old man. He, standing crookedly, cockedhis head and nodded.

"He knows all about it."

"Yes, yes," said Paul. "How is my father?"

Jane threw out her hands in the Englishwoman's insignificantgesture. "He's unconscious--has been for hours--the nurse is upwith him--the end may come any moment. I hid it from you till thelast for your own sake. Would you care to go upstairs?"

She moved to the door. Paul threw off his overcoat and, followed byBarney Bill, accompanied her. On the landing they were met by thenurse.

"It is all over," she said.

"I will go in for a moment," said Paul. "I should like to be alone."

In a room hung like the rest of the house with gaudy pictures hestood for a short while looking at the marble face of thestrange-souled, passionate being that had been his father. The lidshad closed for ever over the burning, sorrowful eyes; the mobilelips were for ever mute. In his close sympathy with the man Paulknew what had struck him down. It was not the blow of the namelessenemy, but the stunning realization that he was not, after all, theirresistible nominee of the Almighty. His great faith had notsuffered; for the rigid face was serene, as though he had acceptedthis final chastisement and purification before entrance into theEternal Kingdom; but his high pride, the mainspring of his fanaticallife, had been broken and the workings of the physical organism hadbeen arrested. In those few moments of intense feeling, in thepresence of death, it was given to Paul to tread across thethreshold of the mystery of his birth. Here lay stiff and cold nobase clay such as that of which Polly Kegworthy had been formed. Ithad been the tenement of a spirit beautiful and swift. No matter towhat things he himself had been born--he had put that foolishnessbehind him--at all events his dream bad come partly true. Hisfather had been one of the great ones, one of the conquerors, one ofthe high princes of men. Multitudes of kings had not been soparented. Outwardly a successful business man and a fanaticalDissenter--there were thousands like Silas Finn. But Paul knew hisinner greatness, the terrific struggle of his soul, the warringsbetween fierce blood and iron will, the fervent purpose, the loftyaspirations and the unwavering conduct of his life of charity andsorrow. He stretched out his hand and with his finger tips lightlytouched the dead man's forehead. "I'm proud to be your son," hemurmured.

Then the nurse came in and Paul went downstairs. Barney Bill waylaidhim in the hall, and led him into the dining-room. "Have a littlefood and drink, sonny. You look as if yer need it--especiallydrink. 'Ere." He seized a decanter of whisky--since Paul's firstvisit, Silas had always kept it in the house for his son's,comforting--and would have filled the tumbler had not Paulrestrained him. He squirted in the soda. "Drink it down and you'llfeel better."

Paul swallowed a great gulp. "Yes," he agreed. "There are times whenit does help a man."

"Liquor is like a dawg," said Bill. "Keep it in subjection, so tospeak, and it's yer faithful friend."

"Where's Jane?" Paul asked.

"She's busy. Half the borough seem to be calling, or telephoning"--and even at that moment Paul could hear the maid tripping across thehall and opening the front door--"I've told her what occurred. Sheseemed half skeered. She's had a dreadful day, pore gal."

"She has indeed," said Paul.

He threw himself into a chair, dead beat, at the end of emotionalstrain, and remained talking with the old man of he scarce knewwhat. But these two--Jane and the old man--were linked to him byimperishable ties, and he could not leave them yet awhile in thehouse of death. Barney Bill stirred the fire, which blazed up,making the perky animals on the hearth cast faint and fantasticshadows.

"It's funny how he loved those darned little beasts, isn't it now? Iremember of him telling me as how they transported him into magicsomething--or the other--medi--he had a word for it--I dunno--"

"Mediaeval?"

"That's it, sonny. Mediaeval forests. It means back of old times,don't it? King Arthur and his Round Table--I done a bit ofreading, yer know." The old man took out pouch and pipe. "That'swhat drew us together, sonny, our taste for literature. Remember?"

"Can I ever forget?" said Paul.

"Well, he was like that too. He had lots of po'try in him--not thestuff that rhymes, yer know, like 'The Psalm of Life' and so forth,but real po'try. I wish I could tell yer what I mean--" Hisface was puckered into a thousand wrinkles with the intellectualeffort, and his little diamond eyes gleamed. "He could take atrumpery common thing like that there mug-faced, lop-eared hare andmake it stand for the medi-what-you-call-it-forest. I've said tohim, 'Come out with me on the old 'bus if you want green andloneliness and nature.' And he has said--I recollect one talk inparticular--he said, 'I'd love to hear' something about a pipe--I'm getting old, sonny--"

"The Pipes of Pan?" Paul suggested.

"The very words. Lor lumme! how did you guess it?" He paused, hisfingers holding the lighted match, which went out before he couldapply it to his tobacco. "Yus. 'The Pipes of Pan.' I don't know whatit means. Anyway, he said he'd love to hear them in the real forest,but duty kept him to bricks and mortar and so he had to hear them inimagination. He said that all them footling little beasts werea-listening to 'em, and they told him all about it. I remember hetold me more about the woods than I know myself--and I reckon Icould teach his business to any gamekeeper or poacher in England. Idon't say as how he knew the difference between a stoat and a weasel--hedidn't. A cock-pheasant and a hen-partridge would have beenthe same to him. But the spirit of it--the meaning of it--hefair raised my hair off--he knew it a darned sight better nor I.And that's what I set out for to say, sonny. He had po'try in him.And all this"--he swept an all-inclusive hand--"all this meantto him something that you and I can't tumble to, sonny. It meantsomething different to what it looked like--ah!" and impatient athis impotence to express philosophic thought, he cast anotherlighted match angrily into the fire.

Paul, high product of modern culture, sat in wonder at the commonold fellow's clarity of vision. Tears rolled down his cheek. "Iknow, dear old Bill, what you're trying to say. Only one man hasever been able to say it. A mad poet called Blake.

'To see a world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower; Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour'."

Barney Bill started forward in his chair and clapped his hand on theyoung man's knee. "By gum! you've got it. That's what I wasa-driving at. That's Silas. I call to mind when he was a boy--pretty dirty and ragged he was too--as he used to lean over theparapet of Blackfriars Bridge and watch the current sort of swirlinground the piers, and he used to say as how he could hear what theriver was saying. I used to think him loony. But it was po'try,sonny, all the time."

The old man, thus started on reminiscence, continued, somewhatgarrulous, and Paul, sunk in the armchair by the fire, listenedindulgently, waiting for Jane. She, meanwhile, was occupied upstairsand in the library answering telephone messages and sending word outto callers by the maid. For, on the heels of Paul, as Barney Billhad said, many had come on errand of inquiry and condolence and allthe news agencies and newspapers of London seemed to be on thetelephone. Some of the latter tried for speech with the newly electedcandidate whom they understood to be in the house, but Jane deniedthem firmly. She had had some training as a politician's privatesecretary. At last the clanging bell ceased ringing, and the maidceased running to and from the street door, and the doctor had comeand given his certificate and gone, and Jane joined the pair in thedining-room. She brought in from the hall a tray of visiting cardsand set it on the table. "I suppose it was kind of them all tocome," she said.

She sat down listlessly in a straight-backed chair, and then, at amomentary end of her fine strength suddenly broke into tears andsobs and buried her head on her arms. Paul rose, bent over her andclasped her shoulders comfortingly. Presently she turned and blindlysought his embrace. He raised her to her feet, and they stood asthey had done years ago, when, boy and girl, they had come to theparting of their ways. She cried silently for a while, and then shesaid miserably: "I've only you left, dear."

In this hour of spent effort and lassitude it was a queer physicalcomfort, very pure and sweet, to feel the close contact of heryoung, strong body. She, too, out of the wreck, was all that he hadleft. His clasp tightened, and he murmured soothing words.

"Oh, my dear, I am so tired," she said, giving herself up, for herpart also, to the foolish solace of his arms. "I wish I could stayhere always, Paul."

He whispered: "Why not?"

Indeed, why not? Instinct spoke. His people were her people and herpeople his. And she had proved herself a brave, true woman. Beforehim no longer gleamed the will-o'-the-wisp leading him a fantasticdance through life. Before him lay only darkness. Jane and he, handin hand, could walk through it fearless and undismayed. And her owngreat love, shown unashamed in the abandonment of this moment ofintense emotion' made his pulses throb. He whispered again: "Whynot?"

For answer she nestled closer. "if only you could love me a little,little bit?"

"But I do," said Paul hoarsely.

She shook her head and sobbed afresh, and they stood in closeembrace at the end of the room by the door, regardless of thepresence of the old man who sat, his back to them, smoking his pipeand looking, with his birdlike crook of the neck, meditatively intothe fire. "No, no," said Jane, at last. "It's silly of me. Forgiveme. We mustn't talk of such things. Neither of us is fit to--andto-night it's not becoming. I have lost my father and you are onlymy brother, Paul dear."

Barney Bill broke in suddenly; and at the sound of his voice theymoved apart. "Think over it, sonny. Don't go and do anything rash."

"Don't you think it would be wise for Jane to marry me?"

"Ay--for Jane."

"Not for me?"

"It's only wise for a man to marry a woman what he loves," saidBarney Bill.

"Well?"

"You said, when we was a-driving here, as you are going to live forthe Truth and nothing but the Truth. I only mention it," added theold man drily.

Jane recovered herself, with a gulp in the throat, and before Paulcould answer said: "We too had a talk to-day, Paul. Remember," hervoice quavered a little--"about carrots."

"You were right in essence," said Paul, looking at her gravely. "ButI should have my incentive. I know my own mind. My affection for youis of the deepest. That is Truth--I needn't tell you. We couldlead a happy and noble life together."

"We belong to two different social classes, Paul," she said gently,again sitting in the straight-backed chair by the table.

"We don't," he replied. "I repudiated my claims to the other classthis evening. I was admitted into what is called high society,partly because people took it for granted that I was a man of goodbirth. Now that I've publicly proclaimed that I'm not--and thenewspapers will pretty soon find out all about me now--I'll dropout of that same high society. I shan't seek readmittance."

"People will seek you."

"You don't know the world," said he.

"It must be mean and horrid."

"Oh, no. It's very just and honourable. I shan't blame it a bit fornot wanting me. Why should I? I don't belong to it."

"But you do, dear Paul," she cried earnestly. "Even if you could getrid of your training and mode of thought, you can't get rid of youressential self. You've always been an aristocrat, and I've alwaysbeen a small shop-keeper's daughter and shall continue to be one."

"And I say," Paul retorted, "that we've both sprung from the people,and are of the people. You've raised yourself above the smallshop-keeping class just as much as I have. Don't let us have anysham humility about it. Whatever happens you'll always associatewith folk of good-breeding and education. You couldn't go back toBarn Street. It would be idiotic for me to contemplate such a thingfor my part. But between Barn Street and Mayfair there's a refinedand intellectual land where you and I can meet on equal ground andmake our social position. What do you say?"

She did not look at him, but fingered idly the cards on the tray."To-morrow you will think differently. To-night you're all on thestrain."

"And, axing yer pardon, sonny, for chipping in," said the old man,holding up his pipe in his gnarled fingers, "you haven't told her ashow you loves her--not as how a young woman axed in marriage oughtto be told."

"I've spoken the Truth, dear old friend," said Paul. "I've. got downto bed-rock to-night. I have a deep and loyal affection for Jane. Ishan't waver in it all my life long. I'll soon find my carrot, asshe calls it--it will be England's greatness. She is the womanthat will help me on my path. I've finished with illusions for everand ever. Jane is the bravest and grandest of realities. To-night'swork has taught me that. For me, Jane stands for the Truth. Jane--"

He turned to her, but she had risen from her chair, staring at acard which she held in her hand. Her clear eyes met his for aninstant as she threw the card on the table before him. "No, dear.For you, that's the Truth."

He took it up and looked at it stupidly. It bore a crown and theinscription: "The Princess Sophie Zobraska," and a pencilled line,in her handwriting: "With anxious inquiries." He reeled, as ifsomeone had dealt him a heavy blow on the head. He recovered to seeJane regarding him with her serene gravity. "Did you know aboutthis?" he asked dully.

"No. I've just seen the card. I found it at the bottom of the pile."

"How did it come?"

Jane rang the bell. "I don't know. If Annie's still up, we can findout. As it was at the bottom, it must have been one of the first."

"How could the news have travelled so fast?" said Paul.

The maid came in. Questioned, she said that just after Paul had goneupstairs, and while Jane was at the telephone, a chauffeur hadpresented the card. He belonged to a great lighted limousine inwhich sat a lady in hat and dark veil. According to her orders, shehad said that Mr. Finn was dead, and the chauffeur had gone away andshe had shut the door.

The maid was dismissed. Paul stood on the hearthrug with bent brows,his hands in his jacket pockets. "I can't understand it," he said.

"She must ha' come straight from the Town Hall," said Barney Bill.

"But she wasn't there," cried Paul.

"Sonny," said the old fellow, "if you're always dead sure of where awoman is and where a woman isn't, you're a wiser man than Solomonwith all his wives and other domestic afflictions."

Paul threw the card into the fire. "It doesn't matter where shewas," said he. "It was a very polite--even a gracious act to sendin her card on her way home. But it makes no difference to what Iwas talking about. What have I got to do with princesses? They'reout of my sphere. So are Naiads and Dryads and Houris and Valkyrieand other fabulous ladies. The Princess Zobraska has nothing to dowith the question."

He made a step towards Jane and, his hand on her shoulder, looked ather in his new, masterful way. "I come in the most solemn hour andin the crisis of my life to ask you to marry me. My father, whomI've only learned to love and revere to-night, is lying deadupstairs. To-night I have cut away all bridges behind me. I go intothe unknown. We'll have to fight, but we'll fight together. You havecourage, and I at least have that. There's a seat in Parliamentwhich I'll have to fight for afterwards like a dog for a bone, andan official position which brings in enough bread and-butter--"

"And there's a fortune remarked Barney Bill.

"What do you mean?" Paul swung round sharply.

"Yer father's fortune, sonny. Who do yer suppose he was a-going toleave it to? 'Omes for lost 'orses or Free Zionists? I don't know as'ow I oughter talk of it, him not buried yet--but I seed his willwhen he made it a month or two ago, and barring certair legacies toFree Zionists and such-like lunatic folk, not to speak of Jane erebeing left comfortably off, you're the residuary legatee, sonny--with something like a hundred thousand pounds. There's no talk ofearning bread-and-butter, sonny."

"It never entered my head," said Paul, rather dazed. "I suppose afather would leave his money to his son. I didn't realize it." Hepassed his hand over his eyes. "So many things have happenedto-night. Anyhow," he said, smiling queerly, in his effort to stilla whirling brain, "if there are no anxieties as to ways and means,so much the better for Jane and me. I am all the more justified inasking you to marry me. Will you?"

"Before I answer you, Paul dear," she replied steadily, "you mustanswer me. I've known about the will, just like Bill, all the time--"

"Oh, no," she replied, shaking her head. "It only--only confusesissues. Money has nothing to do with what I'm going to ask you. Yousaid to-night you were going to live for the Truth--the real nakedTruth. Now, Paul dear, I want the real, naked Truth. Do you lovethat woman?"

At her question she seemed to have grown from the common sense,clear-eyed Jane into a great and commanding presence. She had drawnherself to her full height. Her chin was in the air, her generousbust thrown forward, her figure imperious, her eyes intense. AndPaul too drew himself up and looked at her in his new manhood. Andthey stood thus for a while, beloved enemies.

"If you want the Truth--yes, I do love her," said he.

"Then how dare you ask me to be your wife?"

"Because the one is nonsensical and illusory and the other is realand practical."

She flashed out angrily: "Do you suppose I can live my woman's lifeon the real and practical? What kind of woman do you take me for? AnAmelia, a Patient Griselda, a tabby cat?"

Paul said: "You know very well; I take you for one of thegreatest-hearted of women. I've already said it to-night."

"Do you think I'm a greater-hearted woman than she? Wait, I've notfinished," she cried in a loud voice. "Your Princess--you cut herheart into bits the other day, when you proclaimed yourself alow-born impostor. She thought you a high-born gentleman, and youtold her of the gutter up north and the fried-fish shop and theSicilian organ-grinding woman. She, royalty--you of the scum! Sheleft you. This morning she learned worse. She learned that you werethe son of a convict. What does she do? She comes somehow--I don'tknow how--to Hickney Heath and hears you publicly give yourselfaway--and she drives straight here with a message for you. It'sfor you, the message. Who else?" She stood before Paul, a flashingJane unknown. "Would a woman who didn't love you come to this houseto-night? She wouldn't, Paul. You know it! Dear old Bill here, whohasn't moved in royal circles, knows it. No, my dear man," she saidregally, "I've given you all my love--everything that is in me--since I was a child of thirteen. You will always have it. It's mygreat joy that you'll always have it. But, by God, Paul, I'm notgoing to exchange it for anything less. Can you give me the same?"

"You know I can't," said Paul. "But I can give you that which wouldmake our marriage a happy one. I believe the experience of the worldhas shown it to be the securest basis."

She was on the point of breaking out, but turned away, with clenchedhands, and, controlling herself, faced him again. "You're anhonourable and loyal man, Paul, and you're saying this to save yourface. I know that you would marry me. I know that you would befaithful to me in thought and word and act. I know that you would begood and kind and never give me a moment's cause for complaint. Butyour heart would be with the other woman. Whether she's out of yoursphere or not--what does it matter to me? You love her and sheloves you. I know it. I should always know it. You'd be living inhell and so should I. I should prefer to remain in purgatory, which,after all, is quite bearable--I'm used to it--and I love youenough to wish to see you in paradise."

She turned away with a wide gesture and an upward inflexion of hervoice. Barney Bill refilled his pipe and fixed Paul with histwinkling diamond eyes. "It's a pity, sonny--a dodgasted pity!"

"We're up against the Truth, old man, the unashamed and nakedtruth," said Paul, with a sigh.

Jane caught Paul's fur-lined coat and hat from the chair on which hehad thrown it and came to him. "It's time for you to go and rest,dear. We're all of us exhausted."

She helped him on with the heavy coat, and for farewell put both herhands on his shoulders. "You must forget a lot of things I've saidto-night."

"I can't help remembering them."

"No, dear. Forget them." She drew his face down and kissed him onthe lips. Then she led him out to the front door and accompanied himdown the steps to the kerb where the car with its weary chauffeurwas waiting. The night had cleared and the stars shone bright in thesky. She pointed to one, haphazard. "Your star, Paul. Believe in itstill."

He drove off. She entered the house, and, flinging herself on thefloor by Barney Bill, buried her head on the old man's knees andsobbed her brave heart out.

CHAPTER XXII

THE next morning amazement fluttered over a million breakfast tablesand throbbed in a million railway carriages. For all the fiercenessof political passions, parliamentary elections are but sombreoccurrences to the general public. Rarely are they attended by thepicturesque, the dramatic, the tragic. But already the dramatic hadtouched the election of Hickney Heath, stimulating interest in theresult. Thousands, usually apathetic as to political matters, openedtheir newspapers to see how the ex-convict candidate had fared. Theyread, with a gasp, that he was dead; that his successful opponenthad proclaimed himself to be his son. They had the dramatic value ofcumulative effect. If Paul had ever sought notoriety he had it now.His name rang through the length and breadth of the land. The earlyeditions of the London afternoon papers swelled the chorus of amazedcomment and conjecture. Some had even routed out a fact or two,Heaven knows whence, concerning father and son. According to partythey meted out praise or blame. Some, unversed in the law, declaredthe election invalid. The point was discussed in a hundred clubs.

There was consternation in the social world. The Duchesses' boudoirswith which Paul had been taunted hummed with indignation. They hadentertained an adventurer unawares. They had entrusted the sacredark of their political hopes to a charlatan. Their daughters haddanced with the offspring of gaol and gutter. He must be cast outfrom the midst of them. So did those that were foolish furiouslyrage together and imagine many a vain thing. The Winwoods came infor pity. They had been villainously imposed upon. And the YoungEngland League to which they had all subscribed so handsomely--where were its funds? Was it safe to leave them at the disposal ofso unprincipled a fellow? Then germs of stories crept in from thestudios and the stage and grew perversely in the overheatedatmosphere. Paul's reputation began to assume a pretty colour. Onthe other hand, there were those who, while deploring the deception,were impressed by the tragedy and by Paul's attitude. He had hisdefenders. Among the latter first sprang forward Lord Francis Ayres,the Chief Whip, officially bound to protect his own pet candidate.

He called early at the house in Portland Place, a distressed andanxious man. The door was besieged by reporters from newspapers,vainly trying to gain, entrance. His arrival created a sensation. Atany Tate there was a headline "Opposition Whip calls on Savelli."One or two attempted to interview him on the doorstep. He excusedhimself courteously. As-yet he knew as much or as little as they.The door opened. The butler snatched him in hurriedly. He asked tosee the Winwoods. He found them in the library.

"Here's an awful mess," said he, throwing up his hands. "I thoughtI'd have a word or two with you before I tackle Savelli. Have youseen him this morning?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, what do you think about it?"

"I think," said Ursula, "that the best thing I can do is to take himaway with me for a rest as soon as possible. He's at the end of histether."

"You seem to take it pretty calmly."

"How do you expect us to take it, my dear Frank?" she asked. "Wealways expected Paul to do the right thing when the time came, andwe consider that he has done it."

The Chief Whip smoothed a perplexed brow. "I don't quite follow.Were you, vulgarly speaking, in the know all the time?"

"Sit down, and I'll tell you."

So he sat down and Miss Winwood quietly told him all she knew aboutPaul and what had happened during the past few weeks, while theColonel sat by his desk and tugged his long moustache and here andthere supplemented her narrative.

"That's all very interesting," Ayres remarked when she had finished,"and you two have acted like bricks. I also see that he must havehad a devil of a time of it. But I've got to look at things from anofficial point of view."

"There's no question of invalidity, is there?" asked ColonelWinwood.

"No. He was known as Paul Savelli, nominated as Paul Savelli, andelected as Paul Savelli by the electors of Hickney Heath. So he'llsit as Paul Savelli. That's all right. But how is the House going toreceive him when he is introduced? How will it take him afterwards?What use will he be to the party? We only ran him because he seemedto be the most brilliant of the young outsiders. We hoped greatthings of him. Hasn't he smashed up himself socially? Hasn't hesmashed up his career at the very beginning? All that is what I wantto know."

"I didn't either," said Ursula, "but I don't think it will matter arow of pins to Paul in his career."

"It will always be up against him," said Ayres.

"Because he has acted like a man?"

"It's the touch of Ruy Blas that I'm afraid of."

"You must remember that he wasn't aware of his relation to the deadman until the eve of the election."

"But he was aware that he wasn't a descendant of a historicalItalian family, which everyone thought him to be. I don't speak formyself," said Ayres. "I'm fond of the chap. One can't help it. Hehas the charm of the great gentleman, confound him, and it's allnatural. The cloven hoof has never appeared, because I personallybelieve there's no cloven hoof. The beggar was born well bred, and,as to performance--well--he has been a young meteor across thepolitical sky. Until this election. Then he was a disappointment. Ifrankly confess it. I didn't know what he was playing at. Now I do.Poor chap. I personally am sympathetic. But what about thecold-blooded other people, who don't know what you've told me? Tothem he's the son of an ex-convict--a vendor of fried fish--Iput it brutally from their point of view--who has beenmasquerading as a young St. George on horseback. Will he ever beforgiven? Officially, have I any use for him? You see, I'mresponsible to the party."

"Any party," said Ursula, "would be a congregation of imbeciles whodidn't do their best to develop the genius of Paul Savelli."

"I'm fond of Paul," said Colonel Winwood, in his tired way, "but Idon't know that I would go as far as that."

"It's only because you're a limited male, my dear James. I supposeCaesar was the only man who really crossed the Rubicon. And the fusshe made about it! Women jump across with the utmost certainty. Mydear Frank, we're behind Paul, whatever happens. He has beenfighting for his own hand ever since he was a child, it is true. Buthe has fought gallantly."

"My dear Miss Winwood," said Frank Ayres, "if there's a man to beenvied, it's the one who has you for his champion!"

"Anyone, my dear Frank, is to be envied," she retorted, "who ischampioned by common-sense."

"All these fireworks illuminate nothing," said Colonel Winwood. "Ithink we had better ask Paul to come down and see Frank. Would youlike to see him alone?"

"I had rather you stayed," said Frank Ayres.

A message was sent to Paul, and presently he appeared, very pale andhaggard.

Frank Ayres met him with outstretched hand, spoke a courteous wordof sympathy, apologized for coming in the hour of tragicbereavement.

Paul thanked him with equal courtesy. "I was about to write to you,Lord Francis," he continued, "a sort of statement in explanation ofwhat happened last night--"

"Our friends have told me all, I think, that you may have to say."

"I shall still write it," said Paul, "so that you can have it inblack and white. At present, I've given the press nothing."

"Quite right," said Frank Ayres. "For God's sake, let us worktogether as far as the press is concerned. That's one of the reasonswhy I've forced myself upon you. It's horrible, my dear fellow, tointrude at such a time. I hate it, as you can well imagine. But it'smy duty."

"Of course it is," said Paul. There was a span of awkward silence."Well," said he, with a wan smile, "we're facing, not a political,but a very unimportant party situation. Don't suppose I haven't asense of proportion. I have. What for me is the end of the world isthe unruffled continuance of the cosmic scheme for the rest ofmankind. But there are relative things to consider. You have toconsider the party. I'm sort of fly-blown. Am I any use? Let us talkstraight. Am I or am I not?"

"My dear chap," said Frank Ayres, with perplexed knitting of thebrows, "I don't quite know what to say. You yourself have invited meto talk straight. Well! Forgive me if I do. There may be asuggestion in political quarters that you have won this electionunder false pretences."

"Do you want me to resign my seat?"

The two men looked deep into each other's eyes.

"A Unionist in is a Liberal out," said Frank Ayres, "and counts twoon division. That's one way of looking at it. We want all we can getfrom the enemy. On the other hand, you'd come in for a lot ofcriticism and hostility. You'd have to start not only from thebeginning, but with a handicap. Are you strong enough to face it?"

"I'm not going to run away from anything," said Paul. "But I'll tellyou what I'm prepared to do. I'll resign and fight the constituencyagain, under my real name of Kegworthy, provided, of course, thelocal people are willing to adopt me--on the understanding,however, that the party support me, or, at least, don't put forwardanother candidate. I'm not going to turn berserk."

"That's a sporting offer, at any rate. But, pardon me--we'retalking business--where is the money for another election to comefrom?"

"My poor father's death makes me a wealthy man," replied Paul.

Miss Winwood started forward in her chair. "My dear, you never toldus."

"There were so many other things to talk about this morning," hesaid gently; "but of course I would have told you later. I onlymention it now"--he turned to the Chief Whip--"in answer to yourdirect and very pertinent question."

Now between a political free-lance adopting a parliamentary careerin order to fight for his own hand, as all Paul's supporters werefrankly aware that he was doing, and a wealthy, independent andbrilliant young politician lies a wide gulf. The last man on earth,in his private capacity, to find his estimate of his friendsinfluenced by their personal possessions was the fine aristocratLord Francis Ayres. But he was a man of the world, the veryresponsible head of the executive of a great political party. Asthat executive head he was compelled to regard Paul from a differentangle. The millions of South Africa or the Middle West might vainlyknock at his own front door till the crack of doom, while Paul thepenniless sauntered in an honoured guest. But in his official roomin the House of Commons more stern and worldly considerations had toprevail.

"Of course I can't give you an answer now," said he. "I'll have todiscuss the whole matter with the powers that be. But a seat's aseat, and though I appreciate your Quixotic offer, I don't see whywe should risk it. It's up to you to make good. It's more in yourown interest that I'm speaking now. Can you go through with it?"

Paul, with his unconquerable instinct for the dramatic, hauled outthe little cornelian heart at the end of his watch-chain. "My dearfellow," said he. "Do you see that? It was given to me for failingto win a race at a Sunday-school treat, when I was a very littleboy. I didn't possess coat or stockings, and my toes came outthrough the ends of my boots, and in order to keep the thing safe Iknotted it up in the tail of my shirt, which waggled out of the seatof my breeches. It was given to me by a beautiful lady, who, Iremember, smelled like all the perfumes of Araby. She awakened myaesthetic sense by the divine and intoxicating odour that emanatedfrom her. Since then I have never met woman so--so like a scentedgarden of all the innocences. To me she was a goddess. I overheardher prophesy things about me. My life began from that moment. I keptthe cornelian heart all my life, as a talisman. It has brought methrough all kinds of things. Once I was going to throw it away andMiss Winwood would not let me. I kept it, somewhat against my will,for I thought it was a lying talisman. It had told me, in thesweet-scented lady's words, that I was the son of a prince. Give mehalf an hour to-morrow or the day after," he said, seeing a puzzledlook in Frank Ayres's face, "and I'll tell you a true psychologicalfairy tale--the apologia pro vita mea. I say, anyhow, that lately,until last night, I thought this little cornelian heart was a lyingtalisman. Then I knew it didn't lie. I was the son of a prince, aprince of men, although he had been in gaol and spent his daysafterwards in running emotional Christianity and fried-fish shops.His name was Silas. Mine is Paul. Something significant about it,isn't there? Anyhow"--he balanced the heart in the palm of hishand--"this hasn't lied. It has carried me through all my life.When I thought it failed, I found it at the purest truth of itsprophecy. It's not going to fail me now. If it's right for me totake my seat I'll take it--whether I make good politically, ornot, is on the knees of the gods. But you may take it from me thatthere's nothing in this wide world that I won't face or go throughwith, if I've set my mind to it."

So the child who had kicked Billy Goodge and taken the spolia opimaof paper cocked hat and wooden sword spoke through the man. As then,in a queer way, he found himself commanding a situation; and asthen, commanding it rightfully, through sheer personal force. Again,at a sign, he would have broken the sword across his knee. But thesign did not come.

"Speaking quite unofficially," said Frank Ayres, "I think, if youfeel like that, you would be a fool to give up your seat."

"Very well," said Paul, "I thank you. And now, perhaps, it would bewise to draw up that statement for the press, if you can spare thetime."

So Paul made a draft and Frank Ayres revised it, and it was sentupstairs to be typed. When the typescript came down, Paul signed anddispatched it and gave the Chief Whip a duplicate.

"Well," said the latter, shaking hands, "the best of good luck!"

Whereupon he went home feeling that though there would be the deuceto pay, Paul Savelli would find himself perfectly solvent; andmeeting the somewhat dubious Leader of the Opposition later in theday he said: "Anyhow, this 'far too gentlemanly party' has gotsomeone picturesque, at last, to touch the popular imagination."

"A new young Disraeli?"

"Why not?"

The Leader made a faint gesture of philosophic doubt. "The mould isbroken," said he.

"We'll see," said Frank Ayres, confidently.

Meanwhile, Paul returned to his room and wrote a letter, three wordsof which he had put on paper--"My dear Princess"--when thesummons to meet the Chief Whip had come. The unblotted ink had driedhard. He took another sheet.

"My dear Princess," he began.

He held his head in his hand. What could he say? Ordinary courtesydemanded an acknowledgment of the Princess's message of inquiry. Butto write to her whom he had held close in his arms, whose lips hadclung maddeningly to his, in terms of polite convention seemedimpossible. What had she meant by her message? If she had gonescornfully out of his life, she had gone, and there was an end on't.Her coming back could bear only one interpretation--that of Jane'spassionate statement. In spite of all, she loved him. But now,stripped and naked and at war with the world, for all his desire, hewould have none of her love. Not he. . . . At last he wrote:

PRINCESS,--A thousand grateful thanks for last night's graciousact--the act of the very great lady that I have the privilege ofknowing you to be.

PAUL SAVELLI.

He rang for a servant and ordered the note to be sent by hand, andthen went out to Hickney Heath to see to the burying of his dead. Onhis return he found a familiar envelope with the crown on the flapawaiting him. It contained but few words:

PAUL, come and see me. I will stay at home all day.

SOPHIE.

His pulses throbbed. Her readiness to await his pleasure proved ahumility of spirit rare in Princess Sophie Zobraska. Her hands wereheld out towards him. But he hardened his heart. The fairy-tale wasover. Nothing but realities lay before him. The interview wasperilous; but he was not one to shirk danger. He went out, took acab and drove to Berkeley Square.

She rose shyly as he entered and advanced to meet him. He kissed herhand, but when he sought to release it he found his held in her warmclasp. "Mon Dieu! How ill you are looking!" she said, and her lipsquivered.

"I'm only tired."

"You look so old. Ah!" She moved away from him with a sigh. "Sitdown. I suppose you can guess why I've asked you to come," shecontinued after a pause. "But it is a little hard to say. I want youto forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," said Paul.

"Don't be ungenerous; you know there is. I left you to beareverything alone."

"You were more than justified. You found me an impostor. You werewounded in everything you held sacred. I wounded you deliberately.You could do nothing else but go away. Heaven forbid that I shouldhave thought of blaming you. I didn't. I understood."

"But it was I who did not understand," she said, looking at therings on her fingers. "Yes. You are right. I was wounded--like ananimal, I hid myself in the country, and I hoped you would write,which was foolish, for I knew you wouldn't. Then I felt that if Ihad loved you as I ought, I should never have gone away."

"I thought it best to kill your love outright," said Paul.

She lay back on her cushions, very fair, very alluring, very sad.From where he sat he saw her face in its delicate profile, and hehad a mighty temptation to throw himself on his knees by her side.

"No, you couldn't. I shall love you to the hour of my death." He sawthe light leap into her eyes. "I only say it," he added somewhatcoldly, "because I will lie to you no longer. But it's a matter thatconcerns me alone."

"How you alone? Am not I to be considered?"

He rose and stood on the hearthrug, facing her. "I consider you allthe time," said he.

"Listen, mon cher ami," she said, looking up at him. "Let usunderstand one another. Is there anything about you, your birth oryour life that I still don't know--I mean, anything essential?"

"Nothing that matters," said Paul.

"Then let us speak once and for all, soul to soul. You and I are ofthose who can do it. Eh bien. I am a woman of old family, princelyrank and fortune--you--"

"By my father's death," said Paul, for the second time that day, "Iam a rich man. We can leave out the question of fortune--exceptthat the money I inherit was made out of a fried-fish shop business.That business was conducted by my father on lines of peculiaridealism. It will be my duty to carry on his work--at least"--heinwardly and conscientiously repudiated the idea of buying fish atBillingsgate at five o'clock in the morning--"as far as themaintenance of his principles is concerned."

"Soit," said the Princess, "we leave out the question of fortune.You are then a man of humble birth, and the rank you have gained foryourself."

"I am a man of no name and of tarnished reputation. Good God!" heblazed out suddenly, losing control. "What is the good of torturingourselves like this? If I wouldn't marry you--before--until Ihad done something in the front of the world to make you proud ofme, what do you think I'll do now, lying in the gutter for every oneto kick me? Would it be to the happiness of either of us for me tosneak through society behind your rank? It would be the death of meand you would come to hate me as a mean hound."

"You? A mean hound?" Her voice broke and the tears welled up in hereyes. "You have done nothing for me to be proud of? You? You who didwhat you did last night? Yes, I was there. I saw and heard. Listen!"She rose to her feet and stood opposite to him, her eyes all stars,her figure trembling and her hands moving in her Frenchwoman'spassionate gestures. "When I saw in the newspapers about yourfather, my heart was wrung for you. I knew what it meant. I knew howyou must suffer. I came up straight to town. I wanted to be nearyou. I did not know how. I did not want you to see me. I called inmy steward. 'How can I see the election?' We talked a little. Hewent and hired a room opposite the Town Hall. I waited there in thedarkness. I thought it would last forever. And then came the resultand the crowd cheered and I thought I should choke. I sobbed, Isobbed, I sobbed--and then you came. And I heard, and then I heldout my arms to you alone in the dark room--like this--and cried:'Paul, Paul!"' Woman conquered. Madness surged through him and heflung his arms about her and they kissed long and passionately.

"Whether you do me the honour of marrying me or not," she said awhile later' flushed and triumphant, "our lives are joinedtogether."

And Paul, still shaken by the intoxication of her lips and hair andclinging pressure of her body, looked at her intensely with the eyesof a man's longing. But he said: "Nothing can alter what I said afew minutes ago--not all the passion and love in the world. Youand I are not of the stuff, thank God, to cut ourselves adrift andbury ourselves in some romantic island and give up our lives to adream. We're young. We're strong. We both know that life is adifferent sort of thing altogether from that. We're not of the sortthat shirks its responsibilities. We've got to live in the world,you and I, and do the world's work."

"Parfaitement, mon bien aime." She smiled at him serenely. "I wouldnot bury myself with you in an Ionian island for more than twomonths in a year for anything on earth. On my part, it would be theunforgivable sin. No woman has the right, however much she loveshim, to ruin a man, any more than a man has the right to ruin awoman. But if you won't marry me, I'm perfectly willing to spend twomonths a year in an Ionian island with you," and she looked at him,very proud and fearless.

Paul took her by the shoulders and shook her, more roughly than herealized. "Sophie, don't tempt me to a madness that we should bothregret."

She laughed, wincing yet thrilled, under the rude handling, andfreed herself. "But what more can a woman offer the man who lovesher--that is to say if he does love her?"

"I not love you?" He threw up his hands--"Dear God!"

She waved him away and retreated a step or two, still laughing, ashe advanced. "Then why won't you marry me? You're afraid."

"Yes," he cried. "It's the only thing on this earth that I'm afraidof."

"Why?"

"The sneers. First you'd hate them. Then you'd hate and despise me."

She grew serious. "Calme-toi, my dearest. just consider thingspractically. Who is going to sneer at a great man?"

"I the first," replied Paul bitterly, his self-judgment warped bythe new knowledge of the vanities and unsubstantialities on whichhis life had been founded. "I a great man, indeed!"

"A very great man. A brilliant man I knew long ago. A brave man Ihave known, in spite of my pride, these last two or three awfulweeks. But last night I knew you were a great man--a very greatman. Ah, mon Paul. La canaille, whether it lives in Whitechapel orPark Lane, what does it matter to us?"

"The riff-raff, unfortunately," said Paul, "forms the generaljudgment of society."

The Princess drew herself up in all her aristocratic dignity. "MyPaul well-beloved," said she, "you have still one or two things tolearn. People of greatness and rank march with their peers, and theycan spit upon the canaille. There is canaille in your House ofLords, upon which, the day after to-morrow, you can spit, and itwill take off its coronet and thank you--and now," she said,resuming her seat on the sofa, among the cushions, "let us stoparguing. If there is any more arguing to be done, let us put it offto another occasion. Let us dismiss the questions of marriage andIonian islands altogether, and let us talk pleasantly like dearfriends who are reconciled."

And with the wit of the woman who loves and the subtlety of thewoman of the world she took Paul in her delicate hands and held himbefore her smiling eyes and made him tell her of all the things shewanted to know. And so Paul told her of all his life, of Bludston,of Barney Bill, of the model days, of the theatre, of Jane, of hisfather; and he showed her the cornelian heart and expounded itssignificance; and he talked of his dearest lady, Miss Winwood, andhis work on the Young England League, and his failure to grip inthis disastrous election, and he went back to the brickfield and hisflight from the Life School, and his obsessing dream of romanticparentage and the pawning of his watch at Drane's Court; and in thefull tide of it all a perturbed butler appeared at the door.

"Can I speak a word to Your Highness?"

She rose. The butler spoke the word. She burst out laughing. "Mydear," she cried, "it's past nine o'clock. The household is in astate of agitation about dinner. We'll have it at once, Wilkins."

And Paul stayed to dinner, and though, observing the flimsy compact,they dismissed the questions of Ionian islands and marriage, theytalked till midnight of matters exceedingly pleasant.

CHAPTER XXIII

SO the lovers were reconciled, although the question of marriage wasfarther off than ever, and the Princess and Miss Winwood wept oneach other's shoulders after the way of good women, and Pauldeclared that he needed no rest, and was eager to grapple with theworld. He had much to do. First, he buried his dead, the Princesssending a great wreath and her carriage, after having had a queerinterview with Jane, of which neither woman would afterwards speak aword; but it was evident that they had parted on terms of mutualrespect and admiration. Then Paul went through the task of settlinghis father's affairs. Jane having expressed a desire to take overthe management of a certain department of the business, he gladlyentrusted it to her capable hands. He gave her the house at HickneyHeath, and Barney Bill took up his residence there as a kind of oldwatch-dog. Meanwhile, introduced by Frank Ayres and Colonel Winwood,he faced the ordeal of a chill reception by the House of Commons andtook his seat. After that the nine-days' wonder of the scandal cameto an end; the newspapers ceased talking of it and the generalpublic forgot all about him. He only had to reckon with hisfellow-members and with social forces. His own house too he had toput in order. He resigned his salary and position as OrganizingSecretary of the Young England League, but as Honorary Secretary heretained control. To assure his position he applied for RoyalLetters Patent and legalized his name of Savelli, Finally, heplunged into the affairs of Fish Palaces Limited, and learned themany mysteries connected with that outwardly unromantic undertaking.

These are facts in Paul's career which his chronicler is bound tomention. But on Paul's development they exercised but littleinfluence. He walked now, with open eyes, in a world of real things.The path was difficult, but he was strong. Darkness lay ahead, buthe neither feared it nor dreamed dreams of brightness beyond. TheVision Splendid had crystallized into an unconquerable purpose ofwhich he felt the thrill. Without Sophie Zobraska's love he wouldhave walked on doggedly, obstinately, with set teeth. He had provedhimself fearless, scornful of the world's verdict. But he would havewalked in wintry gloom with a young heart frozen dead. Now his pathwas lit by warm sunshine and the burgeon of spring was in his heart.He could laugh again in his old joyous way; yet the laughter was nolonger that of the boy, but of the man who knew the place thatlaughter should hold in a man's life.

On the day when he, as chairman, had first presided over a meetingof the Board of Directors of Fish Palaces Limited, he went to thePrincess and said: "If I bring with me 'an ancient and fish-likesmell, a kind of, not of the newest, Poor-John,' send me about mybusiness."

She bade him not talk foolishly.

"I'm talking sense," said he. "I'm going through with it. I'm intrade. I know to the fraction of a penny how much fat ought to beused to a pound of hake, and I'm concentrating all my intellect onthat fraction of a penny of fat."

"Tu as raison," she said.

"N'est-ce-pas? It's funny, isn't it? I've often told you I oncethought myself the man born to be king. My dreams have come true.I am a king. The fried-fish king."

Sophie looked at him from beneath her long lashes. "And I am aprincess. We meet at last on equal terms."

Paul sprang forward impulsively and seized her hands. "Oh, you dear,wonderful woman! Doesn't it matter to you that I'm runningfried-fish shops?"

"I know why you're doing it," she said. "I wouldn't have you dootherwise. You are you, Paul. I should love to see you at it. Do youwait at table and hand little dishes to coster-mongers, ancienregime, en emigre?"

She laughed deliciously. Suddenly she paused, regarded himwide-eyed, with a smile on her lips.

"Tiens! I have an idea. But a wonderful ideal Why should I not bethe fried-fish queen? Issue new shares. I buy them all up. Weestablish fish palaces all over the world? But why not? I am intrade already. Only yesterday my homme d'affaires sent me forsignature a dirty piece of blue paper all covered with execrablewriting and imitation red seals all the way down, and when I signedit I saw I was interested in Messrs. Jarrods Limited, and wasengaged in selling hams and petticoats and notepaper and furnitureand butter and--remark this--and fish. But raw fish. Now whatthe difference is between selling raw fish and fried fish, I do notknow. Moi, je suis deja marchande de poissons, voila!"

She laughed and Paul laughed too. They postponed, however, to anindefinite date, consideration of the business proposal.

As Paul had foreseen, Society manifested no eagerness to receivehim. Invitations no longer fell upon him in embarrassing showers.Nor did he make any attempt to pass through the once familiar doors.For one thing, he was proud: for another he was too busy. When theChristmas recess came he took a holiday, went off by himself toAlgiers. He returned bronzed and strong, to the joy of his Sophie.

"My dear," said Miss Winwood one day to the curiously patient lady,"what is to come of it all? You can't go on like this for ever andever."

"We don't intend to," smiled the Princess. "Paul is born to greatthings. He cannot help it. It is his destiny, I believe in Paul."

"So do I," replied Ursula. "But it's obvious that it will take him agood many years to achieve them. You surely aren't going to waituntil he's a Cabinet Minister."

The Princess lay back among her cushions and laughed. "Mais non. Itwill all come in woman's good time. Laissez-moi faire. He will soonbegin to believe in himself again."

At last Paul's opportunity arrived. The Whips had given him hischance to speak. His luck attended him, in so far that when his turncame he found a full House. It was on a matter of no vitalimportance; but he had prepared his speech carefully. He stood upfor the first time in that strangely nerve-shaking assembly in whichhe had been received so coldly and in which he was still friendless,and saw the beginning of the familiar exodus into the lobbies. Asudden wave of anger swept through him and he tore the notes of hisspeech across and across, and again he metaphorically kicked BillyGoodge. He plunged into his speech, forgetful of what he hadwritten, with a passion queerly hyperbolic in view of the subject.At the arresting tones of his voice many of the withdrawing membersstopped at the bar and listened, then as he proceeded they graduallyslipped back into their places. Curiosity gave place to interest.Paul had found his gift again, and his anger soon lost itselfcompletely in the joy of the artist. The House is always generous toperformance. There was something novel in the spectacle of thisyoung man, who had come there under a cloud, standing like afearless young Hermes before them, in the ring of his beautifulvoice, in the instinctive picturesqueness of phrase, in the winningcharm of his personality. It was but a little point in a GovernmentBill that he had to deal with, and he dealt with it shortly. But hedealt with it in an unexpected, dramatic way, and he sat down amidcomforting applause and circumambient smiles and nods. The oldgovernment hand who rose to reply complimented him gracefully andproceeded of course to tear his argument to tatters. Then anill-conditioned Socialist Member got up, and, blundering andunconscious agent of Destiny in a fast-emptying House, began apersonal attack on Paul. Whereupon there were cries of "Shame!" and"Sit down!" and the Speaker, in caustic tones, counselled relevancy,and the sympathy of the House went out to the Fortunate Youth; sothat when he went soon afterwards into the outer lobby--it was thedinner hour--he found himself surrounded by encouraging friends.He did not wait long among them, for up in the Ladies' Gallery washis Princess. He tore up the stairs and met her outside. Her facewas pale with anger.

She looked at him and the sudden tears came. "Thank God," she said,"I can hear you talk like that at last."

He escorted her down the stone stairs and through the lobby to hercar, and they were objects of many admiring eyes. When they reachedit she said, with a humorous curl of the lip, "Veux-tu m'epousermaintenant?"

"Wait, only wait," said he. "These are only fireworks. Very soonwe'll get to the real thing."

"We shall, I promise you," she replied enigmatically; and she droveoff.

One morning, a fortnight later, she rang him up. "You're coming todine with me on Friday, as usual, aren't you?"

"Of course," said he. "Why do you ask?"

"Just to make sure. And yes--also--to tell you not to come tillhalf-past eight."

She rang off. Paul thought no more of the matter. Ever since he hadtaken his seat in the House he had dined with her alone every Fridayevening. It was their undisturbed hour of intimacy and gladness inthe busy week. Otherwise they rarely met, for Paul was a pariah inher social world.

On the Friday in question his taxi drew up before an unusual-lookinghouse in Berkeley Square. An awning projected from the front doorand a strip of carpet ran across the pavement. At the sound of thetaxi, the door opened and revealed the familiar figures of thePrincess's footmen in their state livery. He entered, somewhatdazed.

"Her Highness has a party?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. A very large dinner party."

Paul passed his hand over his forehead. What did it mean? "This isFriday, isn't it?"

"Of course, sir."

Paul grew angry. It was a woman's trap to force him on society. Fora moment he struggled with the temptation to walk away after tellingthe servant that it was a mistake and that he had not been invited.At once, however, came realization of social outrage. He surrenderedhat and coat and let himself be announced. The noise of thirtyvoices struck his ear as he entered the great drawing-room. He wasconfusedly aware of a glitter of jewels, and bare arms and shouldersand the black and white of men. But radiant in the middle of theroom stood his Princess, with a tiara of diamonds on her head, andbeside her stood a youngish man whose face seemed oddly familiar.

Paul advanced, kissed her hand.

She laughed gaily. "You are late, Paul."

"You said half-past, Princess. I am here to the minute."

"Je te dirai apres," she said, and the daring of the intimate speechtook his breath away.

"Your Royal Highness," she turned to the young man beside her--andthen Paul suddenly recognized a prince of the blood royal of England--"may I present Mr. Savelli."

"I'm very pleased to meet you," said the Prince graciously. "YourYoung England League has interested me greatly. We must have a talkabout it one of these days, if you can spare the time. And I mustcongratulate you on your speech the other night."

"You are far too kind, sir," said Paul.

They chatted for a minute or two. Then the Princess said: "You'lltake in the Countess of Danesborough. I don't think you've met her;but you'll find she's an old friend."

"Old friend?" echoed Paul.

She smiled and turned to a pretty and buxom woman of forty standingnear. "My dear Lady Danesborough. Here is Mr. Savelli, whom you areso anxious to meet."

Paul bowed politely. His head being full of his Princess, he wasvaguely puzzled as to the reasons for which Lady Danesboroughdesired his acquaintance.

"You don't remember me," she said.

He looked at her squarely for the first time; then started back."Good God!" he cried involuntarily. "Good God! I've been wanting tofind you all my life. I never knew your name. But here's the proof."

And he whipped out the cornelian heart from his waistcoat pocket.She took it in her hand, examined it, handed it back to him with asmile, a very sweet and womanly smile, with just the suspicion ofmist veiling her eyes.

"I know. The Princess has told me."

"But how did she find you out--I mean as my first patroness?"

"She wrote to the vicar, Mr. Merewether--he is still atBludston--asking who his visitor was that year and what had becomeof her. So she found out it was I. I've known her off and on eversince my marriage."

"You were wonderfully good to me," said Paul. "I must have been afunny little wretch."

"You've travelled far since then."

"It was you that gave me my inspiration," said he.

The announcement of dinner broke the thread of the talk. Paul lookedaround him and saw that the room was filled with very great peopleindeed. There were chiefs of his party and other exalted personages.There was Lord Francis Ayres. Also the Winwoods. The procession wasformed.

"I've often wondered about you," said Lady Danesborough, as theywere walking down the wide staircase. "Several thin happened to markthat day. For one, I had spilled a bottle of awful scent all over mydress and I was in a state of odoriferous misery."

Paul laughed boyishly. "The mystery of my life is solved at last."He explained, to her frank delight. "You've not changed a bit," saidhe. "And oh! I can't tell you how good it is to meet you after all.these years."

"I'm very, very glad you feel so," she said significantly. "Morethan glad. I was wondering . . . but our dear Princess was right."

"It seems to me that-the Princess has been playing conspirator,"said Paul.

They entered the great dining-room, very majestic with its long,glittering table, its service of plate, its stately pictures, itsdouble row of powdered and liveried footmen, and Paul learned, tohis amazement, that in violation of protocols and tables ofprecedence, his seat was on the right hand of the Princess.Conspiracy again. Hitherto at her parties he had occupied his properplace. Never before had she publicly given him especial mark of herfavour.

"Do you think she's right in doing this?" he murmured to LadyDanesborough.

It seemed so natural that he should ask her--as though she werefully aware of all his secrets.

"I think so," she smiled--as though she too were in theconspiracy.

They halted at their places, and there, at the centre of the longtable, on the right of the young Prince stood the Princess, withflushed face and shining eyes, looking very beautiful and radiantlydefiant.

"Mechante," Paul whispered, as they sat down. "This is a trap."

"Je le sais. Tu est bien prise, petite souris."

It pleased her to be gay. She confessed unblushingly. Her littlemouse was well caught. The little mouse grew rather stern, and whenthe great company had settled down, and the hum of talk arisen, hedeliberately scanned the table. He met some friendly glances--aCabinet Minister nodded pleasantly. He also met some that werehostile. His Sophie had tried a dangerous experiment. In LadyDanesborough, the Maisie Shepherd of his urchindom, whose name hehad never known, she had assured him a sympathetic and influentialpartner. Also, although he had tactfully not taken up that lady'sremark, he felt proud of his Princess's glorious certainty that hewould have no false and contemptible shame in the encounter. She hadknown that it would be a joy to him; and it was. The truest of theman was stirred. They talked and laughed about the far-off day.Incidents flaming in his mind had faded from hers. He recalledforgotten things. Now and then she said: "Yes, I know that. ThePrincess has told me." Evidently his Sophie was a conspirator ofdeepest dye.

"And now you're the great Paul Savelli," she said.

"Great?" He laughed. "In what way?"

"Before this election you were a personage. I've never run acrossyou because we've been abroad so much, you know--my husband has adepraved taste for governing places--but a year or two ago we wereasked to the Chudleys, and you were held out as an inducement."

"Good Lord!" said Paul, astonished.

"And now, of course, you're the most-discussed young man in London.Is he damned or isn't he? You know what I refer to."

"Well, am I?' he asked pleasantly.

"I'm glad to see you take it like that. It's not the way of thelittle people. Personally, I've stuck up for you, not knowing in theleast who you were. I thought you did the big, spacious thing. Itgave me a thrill when I read about it. Your speech in the House hashelped you a lot. Altogether--and now considering our earlyacquaintance--I think I'm justified in calling you 'the great PaulSavelli.'"

Then came the shifting of talk. The Prince turned to his left-handneighbour; Lady Danesborough to her right. Paul and the Princess hadtheir conventional opportunity for conversation. She spoke inFrench, daringly using the intimate "tu"; but of all sorts ofthings--books, theatres, picture shows. Then tactfully she drew thePrince and his neighbour and Lady Danesborough into their circle,and, pulling the strings, she at last brought Paul and the Princeinto a discussion over the pictures of the Doges in the Ducal Palacein Venice. The young Prince was gracious. Paul, encouraged to talkand stimulated by precious memories, grew interesting. The Princessmanaged to secure a set of listeners at the opposite side of thetable. Suddenly, as if carrying on the theme, she said in adeliberately loud voice, compelling attention: "Your Royal Highness,I am in a dilemma."

"What is it?"

She paused, looked round and widened her circle. "For the past yearI have been wanting Mr. Savelli to ask me to marry him, and heobstinately refuses to do so. Will you tell me, sir, what a poorwoman is to do?"

She addressed herself exclusively to the young Prince; but hervoice, with its adorable French intonation, rang high and clear.Paul, suddenly white and rigid, clenched the hand of the Princesswhich happened to lie within immediate reach. A wave of curiosity,arresting talk, spread swiftly down. There was an uncanny, deadsilence, broken only by a raucous voice proceeding from a very fatLord of Appeal some distance away:

There was a convulsive, shrill gasp of laughter, which would haveinstantly developed into an hysterical roar, had not the youngPrince, with quick, tactful disregard of British convention, sprungto his feet, and with one hand holding champagne glass, and theother uplifted, commanded silence. So did the stars in their coursesstill fight for Paul. "My lords, ladies and gentlemen," said thePrince, "I have the pleasure to announce the engagement of HerHighness the Princess Sophie Zobraska and Mr. Paul Savelli. I askyou to drink to their health and wish them every happiness."

He bowed to the couple, lifted his glass, and standing, swept aquick glance round the company, and at the. royal command the tablerose, dukes and duchesses and Cabinet Ministers, the fine flowers ofEngland, and drank to Paul and his Princess.

"Attrape!" she whispered, as they got up together, hand in hand. Andas they stood, in their superb promise of fulfilment, theyconquered. The Princess said: "Mais dis quelque chose, toi."

And Paul met the flash in her eyes, and he smiled. "Your RoyalHighness, my lords, ladies and gentlemen," said he, while all thecompany were racking their brains to recall a precedent for suchproceedings at a more than formal London dinner party; "the Princessand myself thank you from our hearts. For me this might almost seemthe end of the fairy-tale of my life, in which--when I was elevenyears old--her ladyship the Countess of Danesborough" (he bowed tothe Maisie of years ago), "whom I have not seen from that day tothis, played the part of Fairy Godmother. She gave me a talismanthen to help me in my way through the world. I have it still." Heheld up the cornelian heart. "It guided my steps to my dearest lady,Miss Winwood, in whose beloved service I lived so long. It hasbrought me to the feet of my Fairy Princess. But now the fairy-taleis over. I begin where the fairy-tales end"--he laughed into hisSophie's eyes--"I begin in the certain promise of living happyever afterwards."

In this supreme hour of his destiny there spoke the old, essentialPaul, the believer in the Vision Splendid. The instinctive appeal tothe romantic ringing so true and so sincere awoke responsive chordsin hearts which, after all, as is the simple way of hearts of menand women, were very human.

He sat down a made man, amid pleasant laughter and bowings andlifting of glasses, the length of the long table.

Lady Danesborough said gently: "It was charming of you to bring mein. But I shall be besieged with questions. What on earth shall Itell them?"

"The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth," he replied."What do the Princess and I care?"

Later in the evening he managed to find himself alone for a momentwith the Princess. "My wonderful Sophie, what can I say to you?"

She smiled victoriously. "Cry quits. Confess that you have not themonopoly of the grand manner. You have worked in your man's way--Iin my woman's way."

And then, Paul's dearest lady came up and pressed both their hands."I am so glad. Oh, so glad." The tears started. "But it is somethinglike a fairy-tale, isn't it?"

Well, as far as his chronicler can say at present, that is the endof the Fortunate Youth. But it is really only a beginning. Althoughhis party is still in opposition, he is still young; his sun isrising and he is rich in the glory thereof. A worldful of great lifelies before him and his Princess. What limit can we set to theirachievement? Of course he was the Fortunate Youth. Of that there isno gainsaying. He had his beauty, his charm, his temperament, hisquick southern intelligence--all his Sicilian heritage--and afreakish chance had favoured him from the day that, vagabond urchin,he attended his first and only Sunday-school treat. But personalgifts and favouring chance are not everything in this world.

On the day before his wedding he had a long talk with Barney Bill.

"Sonny," said the old man, scratching his white poll, "when yer usedto talk about princes and princesses, I used to larf--larf fit tobust myself. I never let yer seen me do it, sonny, for all the timeyou was so dead serious. And now it has come true. And d'yer knowwhy it's come true, sonny?" He cocked his head on one side, hislittle diamond eyes glittering, and laid a hand on Paul's knee."D'yer know why? Because yer believed in it. I ain't had muchreligion, not having, so to speak, much time for it, also being anold crock of a pagan--but I do remember as what Christ said aboutfaith--just a mustard seed of it moving mountains. That's it,sonny. I've observed lots of things going round in the old 'bus.Most folks believe in nothing. What's the good of 'em? Movemountains? They're paralytic in front of a dunghill. I know what I'mtalking about, bless yer. Now you come along believing in yer'igh-born parents. I larfed, knowing as who yer parents were. Butyou believed, and I had to let you believe. And you believed in yourprinces and princesses, and your being born to great things. And Icouldn't sort of help believing in it too."

Paul laughed. "Things happen to have come out all right, but Godknows why."

"He does," said Barney Bill very seriously. "That's just what Hedoes know. He knows you had faith."

"And you, dear old man?" asked Paul, "what have you believed in?"

"My honesty, sonny," replied Barney Bill, fixing him with his brighteyes. "'Tain't much. 'Tain't very ambitious-like. But I've had mytemptations. I never drove a crooked bargain in my life."

Paul rose and walked a step or two.

"You're a better man than I am, Bill."

Barney Bill rose too, rheumatically, and laid both hands on theyoung man's shoulders. "Have you ever been false to what you reallybelieved to be true?"

"Not essentially," said Paul.

"Then it's all right, sonny," said the old man very earnestly, hisbent, ill-clad figure, his old face wizened by years of exposure tosuns and frosts, contrasting oddly with the young favourite offortune. "It's all right. Your father believed in one thing. Ibelieve in another. You believe in something else. But it doesn'tmatter a tuppenny damn what one believes in, so long as it's worthbelieving in. It's faith, sonny, that does it. Faith and purpose."

"You're right," said Paul. "Faith and purpose."

"I believed in yer from the very first, when you were sitting downreading Sir Walter with the bead and tail off. And I believed in yerwhen yer used to tell about being 'born to great things!"

Paul laughed. "That was all childish rubbish," said he.

"Rubbish?" cried the old man, his head more crooked, his eyes morebright, his gaunt old figure more twisted than ever. "Haven't yergot the great things yer believed yer were born to? Ain't yer rich?Ain't yer famous? Ain't yer a Member of Parliament? Ain't yer goingto marry a Royal Princess? Good God Almighty! what more d'yer want?"